I recall going to see The Sheltering Sky, which was based on the novel by Paul Bowles, at a theater on 34th Street in New York. I found the film a little dull, frankly — like the book itself, I wanted to like it more than I actually did. But there’s a scene at the end where Debra Winger’s in a bar and Paul Bowles himself appears before her and asks her, “Are you lost?” And somehow the fact of the author himself showing up in the film, the presence of the man through whom the story had actually flowed, reduced me to tears. And not just a little wet-eyed sniffle, but true and gut-wrenching bawling. My embarrassed boyfriend supported me for the entire walk to Paddy Reilley’s, a bar on 2nd Avenue which held a variety of liquids he hoped one of which would calm me down. I did eventually, reluctantly, still unable to explain what had hit me. I’d had a similar weeping fit sitting crumpled in a chair outside Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey. I don’t know what it was, exactly, that got to me — all those writers! who mean so much! right here! — but I know it hit me hard. I once told someone it felt like God was pressing his thumb right down on my skull.

It’s true that while I’ve enjoyed Infinite Jest very much, this summer has been rough going for me in ways that have tested my focus and resolve on several fronts, and it’s confirmed for me that I’m not really cut out for this Guide business. I’m fascinated by other people’s analysis but I’m not much of an analyzer myself, and I’m sorry if you’ve rolled your eyes more than once reading what I’ve had to offer. I’m a fan of this book, but sometimes fans can’t always summon the kind of commentary that the object of their, uh, fandom (that’s a word, right?) . . . oh, you know what I mean.

The last and maybe only big book I had trouble shutting up about in a way that compares to how many people feel about IJ — the book I bought for friends who I’m sure never read it, and which I have no doubt would have spawned a hideous number of mailing lists had the Internet existed when it was published in 1982 — was James Merrill’s The Changing Light at Sandover. A 560-page long poem, is what it is, and it changed my life.

I don’t think there are a lot of parallels between Sandover and IJ, though like many IJ fans, I’ve read Sandover multiple times, and soon as I’ve finished the last page I loop right back to page one and let the momentum carry me through the beginning all over again. Like IJ, Sandover has actual literary critics who appreciate its many levels of intricate discourse (I just made that up! “Levels of intricate discourse”! Jesus, I’m tired), but in Sandover‘s case, the more literary readers view the “fans” as uncritical knuckle-draggers who believe in astrology and collect commemorative shot glasses. IJ‘s community doesn’t seem to fall apart along those lines, and for that I’m grateful. Either that or Matthew’s done a hell of a job of deleting the withering comments before I’ve ever seen them.

See, this is another mark of a terrible critic — I’m making this whole thing about me.

As we lead up to the first anniversary of DFW’s death (this Saturday), just the thought of that event starts to choke me up. I get a tinge of that God-thumb-skull feeling, frankly, which is no good in public. I try to let it ride. Breathe and keep reading. These last 200 pages are turning into exactly the kind of steep-grade toboggan ride I’ve been hoping for, and I’m so grateful I stuck it out. Thanks, you guys. Thanks Matthew, thanks Kevin and Avery, thanks and thanks again to Michael Pietsch, and to all the guest commenters. Almost done. Almost ready to start again.

8 Comments

That’s a really interesting observation on the split amongst Sandover’s fans. I know nothing about Merrill, but I wonder if it isn’t that fans of Infinite Jest have more intense views about DF Wallace’s importance as a person, more intense views about the level of recognition he deserves, and so and inclusive missionary fervor. (At the very least, I think that describes me.)

I just want to say that this is lovely. Your post seems to be an attempt to say something about how difficult it can be to say anything about this book or this writer. Which I can completely relate to.

I haven’t rolled my eyes and have in fact looked forward to your posts. Part of what’s held my interest w/ Infinite Summer is that it isn’t all-analysis-all-the-time. It can also be these reflections on what a complex thing it is to make space (literally & figuratively) for this book in your life. I like the variety, frankly, and I think what you’re saying here is super important.

(And also: I think you wrote early on that your mother had died, just after this began? I’m very sorry; I couldn’t quite imagine that anyone could read this novel—let alone be a guide–after that. But you did. And that’s amazing.)

Eden, “This is not for tears…
Turning it over, considering, like a madman”

P. S. Anybody who missed Eden’s title’s reference may really like to see the poem cycle it’s from: The Dream Songs, John Berryman. Maybe the most beautiful, surreal volume of modern poetry ever. (If you can get to listen to him on his CD reading from this, it’s a helpful intro on how the strange voice they are mostly in should sound in your head.)

Want to agree with Repat about your contribution. As one of the people who has read IJ multiple times before and been frustrated not only by the smug people who glibbly dismiss it for various reasons (“needs an editor”, “ironic hysteric”**) but by my own fears that my own love for it is the real anomaly, it means a lot to me to watch someone like you able to articulate their connection to the book in terms that are intelligent and that are not grounded only in would-be master’s thesis theoretical reasoning. I remember the Sheltering Sky movie moment you refer to, and being touched by it. As much as I wish 9/22/09 would end with a similar surprise reveal that wiped away the grief of 9/12/08, the next best thing has been to be able to see, in real life/real time, others being affected by IJ, and this would not have happened for me if these people had all spoken in the language of a Lit Theory seminar. Thank you.

**(opinion of both the reading abilities and the humanity of those making this particular comment redacted as part of ongoing attempt to improve my own ability to attain something of the graciousness DFW was capable of.)

You get +20 points for a Berryman allusion. Another mind-blowingly talented American writer who committed suicide. And, as with Wallace, a lot of people think they can now see “warning signs” in his stuff. It’s pretty spooky to consider Berryman’s poem “Henry’s Understanding,” considering the fact that the man killed himself by jumping off a bridge in Minneapolis (for the uninitiated, “Henry” is widely taken to be a surrogate for J. Berryman, even though Berryman himself vehemently denied this connection…

He was reading late, at Richard’s, down in Maine,
aged 32? Richard & Helen long in bed,
my good wife long in bed.
All I had to do was strip & get into my bed,
putting the marker in the book, & sleep,
& wake to a hot breakfast.
Off the coast was an island, P’tit Manaan,
the bluff from Richard’s lawn was almost sheer.
A chill at four o’clock.
It only takes a few minutes to make a man.
A concentration upon now & here.
Suddenly, unlike Bach,
& horribly, unlike Bach, it occurred to me
that one night, instead of warm pajamas,
I’d take off all my clothes
& cross the damp cold lawn & down the bluff
into the terrible water & walk forever
under it out toward the island.

I must admit that I’ve now finished IJ and am not certain, exactly, what has happened to Hal. While he may have an inner life, I have some concern that he has been so damaged prior to Year of Glad that he has trouble expressing it. Is he, in fact, capable of intelligible speech? or is he trapped “in here.” I also want to note, for those who may be sharing this anxiety, that DFW seems to have built into the reading (though he could not have known this)an addict’s typical symptom. I have been clean and sober for thirty years but I can well recall the “preoccupation with supply” experienced by alcoholics and others. In the last hundred pages, gruesome as they were with the Don Gately flashback, I did not want the book to end. Even as plot threads were (sort of) resolved, I had that sinking dismay of ‘running out.’ Anyone empathize?